Paradise Lost, Paradise Found
by Anglobear
Summary: She told him that angels were watching over him, and this time, he believed. AU Dean/Castiel  WIP
1. Of Man's First Disobedience

For a while there was silence in the air, a low buzzing in his head and the added crackle of fire. No matter how many inches of rain came pouring down in the months to follow, to drown out the heat and the pain, there was still the silence bearing down between the soothing storms. For a while, Dean was mute.

It wasn't that he had never talked before; Dean used to spend afternoons counting loudly on stubby fingers and toes, reciting the alphabet simply because he could, and humming lullabies his mother taught him about the sun and the moon. His mother used to tell him that he had a small heart of gold, and he believed her. She could say that angels were watching over him when he was asleep and that he would grow up to be the bravest man she would ever know, and he would nod because his mother never lied.

And then his heart of gold slowly melted into stone.

The passage of time never seemed to go quickly enough for the Winchester family, their infected mental wounds hampering time and space itself. For anyone else, time would be divided into work and play, school and sleep. The Winchesters only had time to think and time to count their losses. A gaping hole in their family unit seemed to tear a divide in between each member at first, until their broken pieces mended together like a bone not set properly, forever an ugly shade of damaged.

The transition into a hunter's life style was far from seamless but it satisfied John's unquenchable thirst for revenge, if only temporarily. It didn't matter how much he alienated his sons as they grew older, he needed them to be able to fend for themselves for the inevitable moment when the monsters came knocking at the door. For this reason, save for speaking when spoken to, for the first few years Dean didn't talk a whole lot. He'd talk to his little brother, his new purpose for staying alive when his body desired otherwise, but his brother didn't know many words, and they needed only looks to convey how they felt. Miserable.

In the month of May, a short while after Sam's sixth birthday, Dean began to wonder what was in store for them. They were awfully big thoughts for such a tiny but growing body, and he picked at his freckles while counting all the ways he thought that by now life would have been normal. For all the times he considered himself his dad's little soldier, he still had his doubts about what they were doing, if it was right. Like Batman, Dean wasn't all about the revenge, just that justice was served in due time, but John was consumed.

At that point, Dean never thought he would open himself up to anyone else ever again.

Sam laid on the floor, happily kicking his feet out behind him while colouring inside the lines of his favourite superhero colouring book. Within the pages it was clear to see who had done which pictures; Dean always thought Iron Man would be cooler if he was blue and lines were invisible boundaries; Sam was austere in his beliefs that colours could not be changed and lines were rules to abide by. Currently he was experimenting with the shading technique his teacher had demonstrated for him in class a few weeks ago, but had yet to make it look as pleasing as hers.

Turning away from the episode of _Thundercats_ on the television, Dean looked down at Sam and hissed to get his attention. "We're leaving tonight," he whispered, as if someone was listening in on their conversation.

"But we just got here," Sam whined. School hadn't even gotten out yet, but already they'd been plucked from classes and forced to reside in the spacious abode of their motel room. And Sam loved school with a passion, loved hanging out with Dean on the playground during recess and sharing lunch with his favourite person in the whole world. Mundane was the motel but divine was the feeling of running down the blacktop with the wind ruffling your hair.

"He's almost finished with his job," Dean paused. His brother didn't know what their dad did for a living, didn't even know how their mother died. Best to keep it simple, and avoid answering questions outright at any cost. "And we have to go with him as soon as possible."

"I don't want to go," Sam continued, scribbling furiously into the picture with his crayons.

"He has another job lined up, we _have_ to."

Sam resigned at the words "have to", though he hated when he _had_ to do anything. Had to take baths, had to eat the same kind of cereal all the time, had to go to bed early just because Dean said so. It was fun having Dean be more of a father than John, until he started enforcing all the rules because he had to as well. "'Kay, well." Sam pushed himself off the floor, crayon shavings dotting his skin. "For you." He held up the picture he had worked so hard to shade and get just right, and Dean gingerly took it into his own hands.

It was Batman, naturally, looking out over Gotham City, with the bat signal blazing in the sky. "He watches Gotham," Sam smiled. "You watch me."

Dean realised he wouldn't give this up for the world.

...

Like thieves in the shadows of the night, the Winchesters slipped into the Impala with their belongings in hand, ready to escape under the guidance of the moon. It was mildly humid, a thin layer of wetness sticking to their palms and brows, and the car radiated heat as she rumbled awake. John muttered a curse when he threw her into gear, the knowledge that he hadn't quite finished the job anchoring him to a town he wanted to skip and forget was even on the map. They had his scent, they'd go after his children. He couldn't take chances.

"Boys, we're going to drive somewhere, somewhere that may not be safe. Under no circumstances are you to leave this car, even if I call for you. Do you understand?" John swung an arm over the seat while eyeing the road as he backed up. Briefly he met both of his sons' eyes, full of faith in their father's words as they said "Yes, dad" in unison.

"Good." The ride to the outskirts of town took them next to no time at all, the Impala coming to a halt as John parked it in the midst of a thicket. The guns he kept beside him on the front seat were useless and instead he took ahold of a long, thin machete slicked up in a foul crimson substance; he made sure his children were not able to see it, though it was hard to keep the blade out of sight. With no time to waste, John crept out of the car and made haste into the brush.

The two boys perched on the seat beside each other, hoping that the higher they sat, the more they could see. It was unheard of for John to take them out on a hunt, though Dean suspected that the day he would bring him wasn't so far off into the future, and it baffled them enough to keep their mouths unmoving. A tree rustled, then a group of twigs clattered around on the ground, the two boys began grasping at each other's shirts.

When a large bush suddenly deflated off in the distance, Dean was sick with worry that his father had been taken by the monsters, the hunter now the hunted. Grubby fingers pawed at the window, not that it helped in doing anything other than dirtying the car, and his body shuddered as he thought of the consequences that tonight would have on the rest of his life. _I'll be all alone with Sam. The monsters will get us. The monsters will get Sam._

A yelp echoed out in the direction of the disturbed bush, a wail that sounded nothing like their father, but had Dean wrenching the door open and turning to face Sam. "Don't follow me, Sammy," he ordered, then bounded down the obscured dirt trail that lead into the thicket. His body ducked under low hanging tree branches and his feet narrowly avoided stray roots, all while the crying began to die out into a sickly moan. Dean genuinely wondered if the sound was even human; a cough and a gurgle held no conclusive evidence.

Sam watched as his brother disappeared, clearly disobeying the orders that were given to them, and knew that Dean would never forgive him if he too disobeyed. A flash of dark blonde hair would whip itself into his vision, then vanish back into the dark of the undergrowth in the not-quite-forest, and Sam noiselessly prayed that his only family would make it back alive.

The bush wiggled when Dean had caught up to it, and with anxious hands he pushed away a tangle of leaves and broken sticks to peer inside. It didn't matter how hard he tried to look, though, for the moon did not cast its light in the direction of his sight. It could be the monster, it could be a wild animal, but Dean trusted his instincts that whatever it was, it was hurt and it needed him. "It'll be okay," he cooed as he reached inside to assuage the fears of the fallen creature hidden in the umbra.

It did not bite him or thrash when he reached what he discovered to be its hair. Human hair, fleecy wisps of it, and Dean groped around to find an ear, a neck, and then a shoulder. In his mind he repeated his mantra, _What would Batman do_, and tried to hoist the creature- no, person -out of the bush. The person was small, very light, and he had no trouble forcing it to budge and fall into his chest. It did not whimper, but the noises it made were strained and caught in its throat, an even bigger sound being forced to stay shy.

"You're okay now," Dean mumbled, though he was terrible at comforting. His only experience was with Sam, and other people were different than Sam. Everyone was different. "Can you talk?"

The little person, who was around Dean's height when prompted to stand up a bit straighter, shook its head until it realised it could not be seen. In its hand it took Dean's chin and shook their heads back and forth together in hopes of mutual understanding. But it _could _talk, Dean knew there was a voice in there somewhere. For the months Dean was mute, he'd overheard and learned why people stopped talking, yet he knew that voices couldn't be lost forever.

"Let's go back to the Impala," Dean said. The child (it _had_ to be a kid) hadn't the faintest idea what an Impala was or where an Impala would be found, but when Dean started to lead the way out of the bushes, it followed like it knew of nothing better. Outlined in blue and grey, with the curling hand of moonlight etched on their cheeks, Dean and whom he rescued trundled through the thicket like newborn deer. In the open spaces between sparse trees Dean could see bewildered eyes and wrecked hair, along with frayed clothes and smudged skin. The moment they were yards away from the Impala and out in the open with light overhead, Dean stopped the kid.

He was just a young boy, this thing that he rescued, and his face told Dean that inside he was battling between fight or flight. Though he had no trembling limbs, he was visibly shaken, and his presence seemed so much bigger than his body would permit, lanky arms and all. Blue irises and wide pupils skipped from one edge of the eye to the other, wary of all sights, and his clenched jaw was almost grinding at every sound. Dean reached his hands out and gripped his shoulders firmly, then made a clicking noise to grab his attention.

"Sammy's here, my dad's here, and I'm here. You don't hav'ta be afraid, my dad'll protect you when he comes back." It never crossed Dean's mind that this might be the monster his dad was hunting, but this boy, with his fluttering eyelids and all, seemed so terribly innocuous that there was no way, no how that he could be the monster. "Just tell me your name and we can help you."

The boy bit his lower lip, struggling to find the words. None would come.

"You can tell me. M'name's Dean."

The boy backed out of Dean's grip on his shoulders and stared straight into Dean's eyes, determined. "Ahh-" he opened his mouth and flinched when the sound was smaller than he expected. There was more rustling from where they'd come from, back in the thicket, but Dean was focused on getting his answer. Just as the boy said his name, a figure leaped out and flanked them, looming over the two as it licked its lips. The boy collected Dean's hands into his own and said his name again, the first time obviously too quiet.

"My name is Castiel."


	2. With Transition Sweet

"You're being reassigned" was the only notice Castiel was given as he sung the high praises of the Holy Spirit in that afternoon's weekly choir. A chorus of Enochian chants rose high up into the infinite sky from the bottom row of the amphitheater and on, a flurry of loose feathers and wings surfing on the artificial gusts of wind that carried their song. The message was delivered straight into his head and his voice faltered at the sudden weight of importance slogging down the vocal cords in his primary throat. The angel to his left, Rhamiel, stared at him curiously until he abandoned the masses to be free of the noise.

Once he'd touched down on the hallowed ground of the angelic city, Castiel looked around with all three of his faces, wondering which of his superiors had given him the news. It was uncommon for an angel to be reassigned, though not unheard of, the new missions typically an improvement from the last if the angel had done anything of particular merit. However, Castiel had done little more than battled demons as of late, so the prospect of being relocated in the kingdom was a tad foreboding.

Instructions were streamed into his head, a place laid out in the map of his mind, and from the angel Zachariah no less. It could not be a pleasant meet-up if Zachariah was involved, but Castiel would keep his chin up and accept whatever came his way; angels were meant to be grateful for the work they were given. Dark iridescent wings unfurling and reaching their full wingspan, Castiel took off for the shore of the crystalline bay on the outskirts of the city, where the sand sparkled like glass and was as colourless as everything, save for their wings.

Zachariah was found holding his hands behind his back, watching the sun that never set, and did not turn when Castiel careened into the sand with his wings, ever clumsy with a pair much too big for his body. Castiel always thought Zachariah intimidating with his one extra face, the one that bore a resemblance to a lion; he'd always made a point to focus on the center face and disregard any rumbles coming from the lion's throat. "I came as quickly as I could," Castiel said to grab his superior's attention.

"You abandoned the choir," Zachariah replied. He still stood facing away from Castiel, all faces in directions other than behind himself.

"I believed the calling to be urgent, given its time of arrival."

"Doesn't matter. So, Castiel." Zachariah finally turned on his heel to search the younger angel with all his eyes. "New job for you. It'll be... _different_ than what you're used to, so to speak."

At the sound of that, Castiel was instantly concerned. What could they possibly have him start doing? More patrol work to make sure the demons never reach Heaven? Or ascension duty, making sure all souls find their way to where they belong? Castiel had tried that once, the reapers making his existence positively miserable when they took away the job of explaining what death was and where they would be going. That was one of the perks, guiding a new soul into the boundaries of the unknown. Blessing people and giving them revelation wouldn't be too bad, he considered, but he thought that his true spot remained in the battalion, where a soldier ought to be.

"I'm giving you guardian angel duty," Zachariah deadpanned.

Castiel's wings fought hard against the grace and strain he put on them, desperate to not let his distaste for the whole idea show through. It was downright absurd, a soldier of his stature being demoted to _guardian angel_ duty of all things. He liked the earth well enough, didn't think too much of the humans there really, but to be assigned a charge? No doubt his charge would be some unruly human, a Godless miscreant who he would save time and time again, just because his soul was seemingly precious to the Host; Castiel wouldn't put it past Zachariah to pull some strings just to arrange that.

"You are surely joking, Zachariah," Castiel said, trying to keep an even voice. While Uriel might be the funniest angel in the garrison (he told a delightful joke about goats last week), Zachariah could be called the resident 'prankster' sometimes. Maybe this was his attempt to goad Castiel into insubordination, get him cut off from the flock and show his 'true colours' for how he felt about Heaven. That was nigh impossible, though, because he loved God, and if God wanted him to watch over a troublemaker, he would do it without a second thought. Didn't mean he had to appreciate it being given to him by Zachariah, though.

"I don't joke, kiddo. Look, I want you to keep a bit of a lid on this. Can you do that for me?" Zachariah stepped up closer and lowered his voice a few decibels. "You're going to be the guardian for a special little guy, real special. He's going to grow up and do a lot for us."

Castiel perked up at the idea that he was protecting someone very important, someone who would do great work for the Host. He nodded and let his feathers form a barrier around the two of them, intensely curious in both wings and face.

"It may require poking around earth, checkin' in on the little guy. You're up for that, right?" Zachariah smiled.

"Will a vessel be required?" Castiel asked. The last time he had been on earth was some time around the 13th century, no vessel necessary. He'd been dispatched with other angels to impose the influence of the bubonic plague amongst civilization, the souls necessary for some reason or another. Castiel never truly got insight as to why he had to strike such a large number of humans down, he just accepted it as fate that they must die. They would all pass eventually.

"Ooh, no. Try not to take a vessel, buddy boy. Bad idea. Can't have you leaving a bad impression of angels on him."

"I see." Castiel's wings drooped low into the ground, bits of sand burrowing into the downy of his trailing feathers. It was amicable of Zachariah to entrust the life of such a soul in Castiel's hands, however disappointing that he couldn't interact with the human. "Could you-could you tell me about this soul?"

"Now Castiel, I can't have you getting too involved in the project," Zachariah laughed. "Your mission is to make sure he doesn't die before we need him, nothing more. His life is going to be awfully burdensome enough without you blinding him with your shiny wings, or giving him the opportunity to corrupt you in a vessel. As your superior, and also as a friend, I'm telling you no." Slate grey wings shot out from his back much like those of an earth hawk, and Zachariah glided off to what Castiel presumed to be more pressing matters.

The angel sat in the sand alone for a short while, the grains sifted through his fingers, the lack of pigment distracting him. Earth was so colourful and so foreign, a place he had hardly stopped to consider, as one would care little about the comforts outside of their home. Baffled by the notion that he could be corrupted by someone or something he did not understand, Castiel ducked his head between his knees and thought of his sister, Anael. She had dabbled recently in the oaths of the Fallen, contemplated the benefits of willingly being cast out of what they knew of as Paradise.

At the request through his thoughts, Anael flew up soundlessly behind him, wings askew and shedding their dark mahogany plumes. Already she was undergoing the process of being weaned from her internal grace and the clarity of her form was blurring. She took a seat a short ways away from him and she, too, took a handful of the sand and let it run through her fingers. "Of all the things, I will miss this beach," Anael sighed.

"Earth has its beaches as well, or so I've heard. There is water aplenty for you," Castiel said, grimly smiling.

"There are people on all of them. This beach is all our own. There is sharing to be had, you know angels do not comprehend the concept of that, and friendship outside of fellow soldiers. I always wondered if you would turn on me, being a soldier yourself."

"You are a sister of mine, and I understand the concept of family, if anything. It's not restricted to the humans."

Their wings ruffled in the breeze coming north of the water, another cluster of Anael's feathers stripped from her skeletal wings. It was difficult to keep an eye on her tainted flesh, growing more human and less celestial, smaller and more frail. Soon she would be deported out and reborn, losing all recollection and sense of purpose, a confused crying shell of the glory she once was. Castiel could sense her sadness but not her regret, for there was none. Anael had been coerced by humans and the way they erred, simply by spending too much time on the surface on the planet. A vessel would not be wise to take, no, not unless he wanted to follow in her footsteps.

"Your thoughts seemed erratic, brother. It's how you are in the face of superiors, so has Zachariah paid you a visit?" Anael flexed a wing and scooted closer, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

"Yes," Castiel breathed out. So painfully obvious of him. "But it's supposedly top secret. I really don't know why I called for you."

Anael draped the skeleton of her wing around one of Castiel's own, a daring intimate touch between kin, and grinned. "I'm falling soon. What secrets you share with me, I shall take to the grave. One never knows, it may prove beneficial for you to get it off your chest. Tell me, is it ascension duty?"

"Of course not!" Castiel sputtered. "Never again."

"Then tell me, or I will boast to everyone about how Castiel, the angel of solitude, was too ashamed to let everyone know he had to spend another few hundred years with the _reapers_."

There was hardly any point in arguing with the stubborn angel, not since it was his doing that brought her to the beach in the first place. To be honest, the moment it had escaped Zachariah's mouth that it was important business, this charge of his, Castiel had wanted to tell someone. Uriel disliked humans as much as any of the borderline rebellious angels but was also the only other angel that Castiel was close with; Anael was the natural choice. "Fine, I will tell you under the condition that no one knows. Zachariah would have my grace."

Anael giggled, the air of human exuding each swish of her arms and wiggle of her legs. "We cannot have that, can we? Go on."

"I am to be a guardian angel-"

"I don't need to tell the others of ascension duty! You've been struck with the lowest of lows, brother!"

"Keep your voice low, Anael. It is for an important soul, he means a lot to the Host. Zachariah used the word 'special' for him."

Anael hummed in her throat and closed her eyes to take in the information. She reached out a hand and patted Castiel gently on the knee, then gripped it loosely. "Will you meet this soul? Guardians' presences walk the earth occasionally," she chirped at him.

Castiel frowned. "No, I was forbade the opportunity. I can see him at times, but he is not to know of me." Anael made a pitiful noise of regret towards her brother and released him of her hold on his leg. Her head shook and her feathers quivered, the one remaining face she possessed painted as one of sadness. For an angel of joy, she knew much of the burden of grief and without words she fed off of his morose energy.

"I will find this boy of yours, how about that?"

"You won't, you can't. Fallens are stripped of their memories, this conversation will mean nothing to you in a week's time, as will I."

Anael abruptly stood up, supposedly to stretch her legs, spindly fingers grazing milk white calves, but paused to pet Castiel's head. "You underestimate the Fallen, you are not one. I am a marked angel and I may be of little worth to Heaven and our Father himself, but you are different, Castiel. I will never forget you, no matter your visage, your vessel, your grace. Once my brother, always my brother."

The morning that Anael fell, Castiel understood the most basic of human feelings.

He understood loss.

* * *

><p>The day Castiel became a full-fledged guardian angel, the day his charge was born, he was denied the privilege to see him. The word of his reassignment had not spread throughout the Host yet, though it was sure to be common knowledge once he embarked on his first journey to the surface of the planet. It was not as though he was asking for a vessel or permission to mingle with the newborn, yet all requests were denied, denied, denied. Time on earth was far more fluid than the restrictions of time in Heaven and if Castiel did not act quickly, he would miss out on a chunk of his charge's life.<p>

Castiel pressed any and all superiors he came across in the streets of the city for permission, but they all referred him to Zachariah. How could that angel hold it over Castiel's head, the power to let him do Heaven's work, what he was created for? Enochian curses bubbled and hissed on his lips, the foulest of utterances one so holy could conjure up. It was an outrage and there was no one to take it up with, for Zachariah was held in high regards, and he claimed he could make you fall all the way to Perdition if you crossed him.

"Please," Castiel had pleaded, reduced to something so shameful. An angel stripped of his rank and now this? How many divine atrocities had Castiel done in the name of the Holy Spirit to incur this wrath? "I ask for little, just a passing glance. He will not know of me, Zachariah, I am bound to my word."

"Hey, I believe you, Castiel. It's not time yet, wait until the real strife comes in. He is destined for a path of pitfalls and other traps, let him come into them in his own time," was all Zachariah would offer. It hardly quenched the desire to communicate with his charge, especially when not even the name was imparted unto him. What guardian did not know their charge's name?

Fettered to his home, Castiel flew around the skies aimlessly for days on end, never tiring. He shirked choir and revelation, denied assisting the battalion in polishing their armour and making mock battle plans. Stress had unhinged him and he soared in alternating streaks of anger and despair. The day the message was relayed to him that his charge had learned to speak and walk was a day of raining feathers. In a few short weeks, his charge even had a sibling that Castiel knew nothing of until months into its life. The delay between happenings and when the angel learned of them was a gap that was unbearable.

Then came the day that his charge lost his mother, to a demon no less.

"Zachariah," Castiel panted. He had secured a moment alone with his superior and his wings were flaring with urgency. "His life, is there enough strife in it now? I mean, it is not as though I care for him, but my job. I can't be expected to stay still any longer."

"Go ahead." Zachariah, frankly, was weary of hearing the petulant cries of an angel who thrust his nose to the grindstone so often that a vacation was a better torture than severing limbs. "No vessel, stay cloaked. Can't have the Winchester family's eyes burned out when they're so fragile, eh?"

"Winchester." Castiel spoke the new name with a cautious voice. First names could come later, for now he would think of his charge as the Winchester child. "I won't be long."

"I don't plan on waiting for you," Zachariah sneered, then swiped at Castiel with the edge of a wing. He could take a hint, of course, and Castiel was gone, speeding towards the ethereal gates that separated the planes. His wings were free of anxiety, and there was a happiness born into Castiel's grace that filled up the wounds that the drawn out weeks had drilled in him. Doing as he was told, he cloaked once in the atmosphere of earth and honed in on where the Winchester child's soul burned brightly.

It was a soul of jumbled lights, Castiel could tell already from his vantage point above the clouds. The vibrancy was hampered, distraught, and its edges were singed. It was not irreversible damage, but it was the soul of the cursed, the afflicted, and Castiel gulped against the dry heat in his throat. As a guardian, he would protect this Winchester child, watch over and make minor miracles that were seemingly random in the name of the child. This boy, his charge, would rely on him whether he knew it or not, and how could Castiel save something that would ultimately end up so twisted and broken? There weren't enough miracles in the world to make up for what this boy had lost.

Castiel dipped down, low enough to make shapes out of the landscape, then rocketed down into the middle of a Kansas field. Wing tips grazing the long stalks of grass and plants, the angel made mental notes of the surrounding area; the moon's presence was thick and opaque in the sky, governing over the stranded cows and wild jackrabbits. There wasn't a barn to be seen within relative flying distance, though there were houses a ways up ahead. Castiel skimmed over the buildings without real fascination, abandoned homes were all the same as the occupied.

It took little difficultly to locate the Winchester family, three souls caught in a storm; the oldest of the family served as the lighthouse, his sons the wayward ships who would never return home - Castiel could see it in the father's soul, the urge to abandon the familiarity he'd molded the house into. The boys would go wherever he went, wherever the light shone brightest, the pinnacle of safety in a world full of cliff faces to fall for and shipwrecks. The outlook was bleak from here on out.

The angel brought his feet upon the ground, a rumble of energy causing a few ambulances and fire engines to lurch forward. Against the hood of vehicle were the Winchesters, and Castiel scrunched up his noise at the stamp of demonic presence laid upon the smallest child. It was not his to protect, but there was pity in him, enough to tell himself that he would protect him as well. He would protect them all.

"Dean."

The other child, Castiel's charge, reluctantly tossed his head back for a moment, then put his eyes back on the bundle that was his little brother. He had a name, he was Dean, he was Castiel's. Dean. If his voice would not erupt fire hydrants and pop the eardrums of all within a five hundred yard radius, the angel would have tried out the name on his own. It was a lovely name, he knew he would grow to think it the most important of names for it was the name that meant something to Heaven.

Sensing discomfort in Dean, Castiel sidled up beside him on the car. There was little remarkable about his features, though Castiel only saw real worth in souls; humans were so peculiar with their one and only face, their lack of ability to sense things more acutely than angels, and their firm independence. He rested a hand atop Dean's head, feeling each strand of dark blonde hair, and imparted a meager amount of his grace into the child. For posterity's sake, he even gave a little to the baby brother to pacify the recent insertion of demonic influence.

The firefighters had blamed it on faulty wiring, outlets sparking and things setting ablaze. The roof had caved in shortly after help had arrived, so no one discovered that the mother was on the ceiling, of all the places one could die. He knew he couldn't stay long but he still tried to glean as much information from the minds of those around him and the information relayed in their speech. Soon Castiel knew the names of all three Winchesters - Dean, Sam, and John - and considered his first day on the job a success. The grace inside of Dean's soul was absorbed and distributed amongst himself as pleasant feelings, though there was no smile to accompany the elevated pace of his heart.

It was apparent that the Winchester were itching to flee the scene the opportunity presented himself, and Castiel wondered where they would go. It didn't concern him, not really, he could find Dean's soul much easier now that he'd met it once. He couldn't stop them from picking up stakes and relocating to more pleasant spots in the country either, hopefully it would be somewhere with less danger - Castiel wanted just the opposite of danger.

Just before he left, Castiel took it upon himself to whisper a prayer to the heavens, the words disguising themselves as gusts of wind, in hopes that an angel of safe travel would show them the right way out. _I care about you and I do not know why. In time, it may be clear. Until then, I will take it upon myself to shield you from harm's way. God speed, Dean Winchester. May the grace instill in your heart a feeling of greater purpose._

* * *

><p>Word circulated around the long roads of Heaven that the angel named Castiel was a guardian angel, the butt of every joke, and was being punished for something no one could name. Angels were not the type to gossip openly about what they thought of other angels, they usually thought and felt nothing aside from camaraderie, but Castiel's situation was too good to pass up. There were no rumours, though playful jabs and sly smiles were plentiful. Castiel did them justice with rueful glares, despite knowing that his mission was just and deserved.<p>

Guardian angels were born into their occupation, they knew nothing better than the lives of servitude to a human; they were isolated on another side of Heaven and were forbidden from associating with those who might mock. Castiel was not given this luxury, of blissful ignorance, though at least he could socialize. Anael would understand the situation but the mere thought of her taking him under her wing and cooing soothing chants to him was perturbing. No matter which way he flew in Heaven, he could not win.

Instead, Castiel sought solace in the visits he was granted. So often would he frequent the earth that hardly any time had passed by, though the seasons would change in a flashy splendor. Undoubtedly there were opportunities, little moments of life on the brink of being snuffed out, and Castiel was there for as many of them that he could dash to. Would his charge be safe if he did not come to the rescue and manipulate reality for him every time? Possibly, but the angel chose not to consider the possibility.

Little Dean Winchester was a wordless soul for quite some time, always miming the things he wanted or keeping to himself to take care of the one thing left in his control. While battling supernatural creatures by day and night, his father was an absent role, a hole that yearned to be filled. Just once Castiel would have liked to take a vessel to spy on the innerworkings of the Winchester household when their father was not around and deliver his grace in person. Just a present for keeping his duty so simplistic, nothing more. This Dean was the perfect charge, unassuming and well-meaning.

"I would be remiss in my duty if I didn't think you were starting to care a bit much about this boy," Zachariah said, interrupting the languid energy that Castiel had set up around the motel room the Winchesters had crashed at. His voice sounded transmuted but still audible, though not to humans. Castiel, not wanting to speak out of turn, turned his head away.

"Of course." Zachariah continued. "Of _course._ I still wonder why I gave this mission to you, you know that? The kid'll never learn if he thinks he's gonna get an out every time he faces fate and comes out victorious. Human life is all about losing, so let the kid lose. You're the most smothering guardian angel I have ever seen."

"I apologize," Castiel whispered.

"Not good enough. You, you're not visiting him anymore unless I come to you and advise you to."

Castiel's eyes swept over the room, took in where Sam sat up all on his own and looked up curiously at a television set, and at Dean, who was counting the holes in the ceiling as a way to pass the time. There was no bond between the angel and the brothers, or the family unit as a whole, so this should have been easy to come to terms with. Maybe it was the idea of failing God, losing his purpose, falling. It wasn't about the humans, it was about himself. A mask of pride slid down and revealed the stoic angel beneath, the soldier who strayed.

"For a minute there I thought we were going to have to send you in for reeducation. Almost had to do that to Anael, but it's probably better we let her go. She caused enough trouble."

Castiel flinched. As he had felt for the Winchesters, however brief that window of time was, he had felt for Anael. A sister in arms, a fallen comrade, the life she left behind. Her soiled blood red wings, the roses in her cheeks, the sun in her eyes. It wasn't definable love, not by any stretch of the imagination, just exactly what Castiel knew Dean felt for Sam somewhere deep inside that muted metaphorical heart. The angel flew home without another word, the humiliation weighing his grace down. Zachariah smiled.

Brothers wrapped in white, Castiel flocked to the refuge of the other guardians. They were like monks, the men of few words but glorious souls, and they spread their saffron wings like celebration banners. They did not press for answers about the Kingdom that they were isolated from, just confided in each other the heroic saves they made and the miracles they performed out of thin air. Their own masks of pride left Castiel sullen, though not deterred. This punishment of his own device would be better than reeducation and he could learn to limit his visits like the others.

As if he had any choice.

Zachariah did not call for him. Not once, not ever. The guardians reported on the months and the minutes, yet the numbers meant nothing to the prisoner. Castiel loathed himself, his mistakes, ran fingers through his wings and winced when he pulled feathers out. All his prayers went unheard. God didn't think him special, nor Dean Winchester. They told him to keep his faith, the plan was just, so he did. Castiel waffled on his ideals, hardly considering that this might be just what Zachariah intended.

So it was devised that he would leave Heaven, just to sneak a peek and let himself be enveloped by the gauzy clouds of the other world, just to see his charge. One more miracle, it was like an addiction, one more save. _He gave me this. I made an oath._

And this time, he would take a vessel.

His true vessel had not been on earth for as long as Castiel could remember. Between all the praying and swears to God, Castiel lit up when his grace vibrated and felt the presence of his true vessel calling out to him, finally crying out to be chosen for a higher purpose. In that vein he was much like the angel; coincidences were never as such. "Thank you Father," Castiel said quietly as he stepped out of the ivory towers of the guardians and took flight towards the nearest ethereal gate.

Jimmy Novak. His name struck a chord inside Castiel; another important name that Castiel would make sure to never forget. Just a young boy hailing from a religious family, never felt as if he was good enough in the eyes of God. A boy who would do anything to prove himself to the Lord and those he loved. As Castiel uncloaked himself before a kneeling child, he remembered what Zachariah had said about corruption. He smiled softly.

"Jimmy Novak," Castiel whispered. The child whipped around from his prayer position beside the bed and gave out a strangled gasp. "You prayed for me."

"I did? I did what? I was just talking to G- who are you?" Jimmy's eyes widened. "Are you... Are you God?"

Castiel's other two faces joined him to smile too. "I am Castiel. An angel of the Lord."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"You don't look like the angels they show us in church." In the face of a phenomenon, Jimmy was surprisingly well behaved. Though he did flinch as Castiel came closer with his heaps of feathers and wings, he didn't try to scramble away under the pressure.

"Most humans don't know of our true forms. Only 'special' humans can see them," Castiel told him. Special, special like Dean. More special, a different kind of special. "We must make haste, Jimmy. Heaven has work for you, if you say yes."

"What about my family?" Jimmy asked. The boy, disproportionate limbs and all, hopped up onto his bed and stared into Castiel's primary eyes. "What am I saying yes to?" Humans asked too many questions, Castiel knew of this after listening to Sam gurgle half-formed inquiries time and time again.

"You've been chosen to be a vessel, you are my true vessel. It is your destiny to be this, but I can't enter your body without consent."

"Will it hurt? And my family, will they know?"

"Your soul will be safe, you will feel little. Some feel nothing at all. It is very relative," the angel admitted. "But your family won't know, it is not advised that they do. You won't be gone long. I will return you here before dawn breaks."

Jimmy bit at the inside of his cheek and mulled it over. There were pros and cons to be weighed, despite an angel waiting with bated breath on the answer that could make or break his time on earth. The longer this was prolonged, the sooner Zachariah would realise that Castiel had left; the odds seemed not in his favour. "Yes." Jimmy nodded. The desire to be of service and prove himself had his soul beaming, glimmering even. Castiel stepped closer to the boy and placed his hands on his temples.

"Before the sun comes up," Jimmy whispered.

"Before the sun comes up."

Castiel blacked out. When he opened his eyes, they were not his eyes. He felt cramped, claustrophobic. The wings he wore had compartmentalized itself into sections of grace within various points of the body, a majority of it nestled where Jimmy was tucked away to comfort the confused owner of the vessel. Castiel's senses were significantly dulled, possibly to the point of uselessness. What good were humans?

At the very least, he was able to seek out where Dean was at that very point in time, many miles from Jimmy Novak's bedroom. The miles didn't matter when one could fly, but flying was problematic. Highly problematic. Castiel tried to will the body into accepting the act of flight, except it didn't want to. There seemed to be dampers on his grace, the ability to use it coming in waves. _Is it...?_

There was no time to waste. With a forceful tug on his grace, Castiel made himself fly to where he could find Dean - the only thing that mattered was getting a safe distance near him. The angel did not expect his charge to be anywhere but a temporary shelter, definitely not a thicket in the middle of nowhere. Pain streaked through his senses, a kind of pain that was foreign to angels. Humans felt pain; what good were humans? Castiel landed sharply in a bed made of bushes, stray sticks jutting out from the brush and into Castiel's lower back.

There was no use in trying to hold back the wailing. Though Castiel feared his true voice would be what came spilling out, there was hardly any time to consider that. _I must abandon my vessel_, he thought frantically. A voice was off in the distance, too far for him to make out what it said, but it was urgent. Someone began tearing through the thicket to find him. Castiel pressed at the walls of his vessel, demanding escape, an attempt to forsake the word he gave to little Jimmy that he would return him home before the sun rose.

No luck. No light. No hope.

There were hands on him, groping to feel his flesh. Castiel's first instinct was to flinch, the rest came mindlessly to him. He let himself be tugged out of the bush and though he couldn't see his saviour, he knew by the soul. _Dean?_ Dean helped him seek salvation from the awfully poke-y thicket, soul glowing for a heroic effort. _Dean. _The boy continued to prompt the angel for a name and the angel continued to fear his voice.

There were too many 'what if's circulating through Castiel's mind, so he muttered it as low as he could, the voice more delicate than he imagined. Jimmy's voice, his words. Dean did not hear him though, and soon they were preoccupied with a towering beast - no, vampire - that had sharpened teeth. "My name is Castiel," he told Dean quickly as he grabbed his hand. He deserved this, dying by his charge, all because he rebelled just once. Once was all it took. He couldn't use his grace, it felt as though he was shackled to his vessel, and his mortality was questionable.

The head of the vampire was abruptly lopped off by a swinging blade. It and the body dropped down before their feet; Castiel nonplussed, but Dean quaked with fear. He too had disobeyed, Castiel read it in his mind. John gripped the handle of the blade while his face contorted into something beyond anger.

"Get in the car. Now."

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><p>(<strong>AN:<strong> _asdfg sorry that this was such a boring chapter. Backstory, I can't even wrap my head around how to do it. I swear I have loads of cutesy stuff planned, so much fluff. SO MUCH. I just, y'know, had to get this out of the way. Thank you for bearing with me c_: )


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